


Undone

by thucydides_groupie



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Almost smut, Angst and Humor, Benjamin Tallmadge/Reader if you squint, F/M, Missing Scene, One Shot, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:08:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29966157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thucydides_groupie/pseuds/thucydides_groupie
Summary: In which Ben isn't as suave as the fandom gives him credit for.
Relationships: Sarah Livingston (Turn)/Benjamin Tallmadge
Comments: 6
Kudos: 4





	Undone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ashes_of_roses (KendraLuehr)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KendraLuehr/gifts).



> After discussing it with @ashes_of_roses, there are a lot of inconsistencies about Ben and Sarah's love scene in 3x04. How was Ben able to perform with his wound? @ashes_of_roses' friend brings up a good point: Realistically, Ben would've fainted or hurled as a result of such a strenuous activity. Let us not forget, the morning after, they're both still dressed, yet they behave as if they haven't acknowledged what happened the night before. So that begs the question: Did anything happen?

You were whimpering. That’s what made me turn my head. The sound’s what made me forget about the fire I was tending. That was why I crossed the room, finding a seat beside you, where you laid in the bed. In _my_ bed. People say you’re supposed to look peaceful when you sleep. While you still looked handsome, peace seemed to be the furthest thing from your expression. Your brow was crinkled; in confusion or pain, I couldn’t tell. You twitched in your sleep; I could see the way your eyes danced under your eyelids.

I pressed a hand to your forehead, feeling a pang of concern. Had your fever returned? But when I pressed the back of my hand to your skin, your whimpers subsided. You felt normal. Warm, yes, but no warmer than I was. That’s when I noticed the way your hair stuck to your face. You weren’t anymore, but you had clearly perspired in your sleep. Several strands of hair stuck to your cheeks, and I found myself brushing those strands out of your eyes. I’ll admit, my hand hesitated at your brow. I had a desire to run my hands through your tangled hair, and I was trying to restrain myself. Perhaps if I hadn’t have hesitated, then you wouldn’t have opened your eyes.

You were awake, looking up at me through hooded eyes. I leaned forward, expecting you to speak, to ask for water, for anything. But you didn’t utter a word. All you did was reach out and take my hand; the hand still hovering by your face; and you brought it to your lips.

I shivered in spite of myself. At the feeling of your chapped lips, at the feeling of your calloused fingers. Your lips trailed from the back of my hand to my palm, and then you were kissing upwards, stopping at my wrist. The gesture was so… gentle. My mind flashed to my husband. He had never been this tender with me, and I don’t think he ever would’ve been. And thinking of him, thinking of what you were doing right now; I could feel the heat rising in my face.

I know the room was dim, but could you see my blush? It was dark enough that if you were blushing as well, I couldn’t tell. I wondered for a second if you could feel my pulse quickening under your touch; I almost wondered if you could hear the blood pounding in my ears.

Your kisses came slower then, and you were beginning to loosen your grip on me, and I could feel the disappointment washing over me. What was this? Was this to show thanks? Thanks for saving your life? For pulling that bullet out of your abdomen, for cleaning you up, for clothing you, for feeding you? Whatever this was thanks for, in that moment I didn’t need an explicit answer, because I understood, and I didn’t want it to end.

That’s when I kissed you. You moaned against me, and the sound made me feel weak in the knees. And then your hand was cradling my face, and your tongue was trying to slip past my lips, and I let you. I let myself open my mouth, I let myself lean closer to you, deepening our kiss. I didn’t know a minister could kiss like that.

Next thing I knew, I was on top of you, with you in between my thighs. I wanted to crush myself against you, but there was your wound to think about. How would this work? Wasn’t this wrong? Did _you_ even want this? Did _I_ even want this?

That’s when I pulled away, perching myself up so I was sitting on your hips. You were out of breath as you watched me pull at the ties on my dress, sliding it off my shoulders. I didn’t take my eyes off your face as you stared at me with a look of awe, seeing me in just my shift and corset. Was this your first time? It certainly seemed to be. My own husband never looked at me the way you were looking at me then. I supposed I should expect nothing less from a minister, but still. There was so much about you I knew nothing of. And for some reason, the _not_ knowing was what made the knot in my stomach tighten. It made the heat pool between my thighs.

You reached out then, placing a hand to my clothed chest. Your touch burned like fire, and I wished then that you would stop acting so gentle. I wanted you to forget about your wound. I was tired of being delicate. I wanted your fingers to dig into my skin so hard they left bruises, wanted you to rip at my clothes and make me yours.

Your fingers brushed the bare skin of my chest, of my collarbone, then you pulled me back down, kissing me rougher this time. Could you read my mind? It was my turn to moan against you, but my moans quickly turned into a noise of surprise as you shifted your weight, rolling us over so I was on my back and you were laying above me. You pushed me into the mattress, and I liked the feeling of your weight on me. I spread my legs, bending them at the knee, letting you find your place between them.

I could feel you through your breeches and through my shift. And my heart quickened even more. I could imagine what you would feel like, pushing into me, and that anticipation was what made a smile tug on my lips.

Your lips were still on mine, our breathing almost becoming one as we panted against each other. You were perspiring again, but I was too, and I loved the breathy noises we made. I loved the way they echoed in my small cabin, the way they drowned out the crackling of the hearth.

I was tugging on your shirt then and, somehow, we managed to pull it over your head in a swift movement. You didn’t give me much time to admire you the way you admired me. Your lips found mine again, and I had to settle for running my hands across your bare back. Letting my nails gently scratch at your skin.

I could feel your heart beating against my chest. Your breathing was getting heavier, far heavier than mine. You moved a hand to my waist then, gripping at me through the material of my shift. That’s when I took your hand, trying to show you where I wanted you, trying to make your hand slip under my skirt.

And then you paused. Your lips froze mid-kiss, your tongue still pressed against mine. My brow furrowed and I opened my eyes. What happened? And that’s when I saw you. I was right when I said you were perspiring again, but you didn’t look anything like me. Even in the shadows, I could see how pale you had become. You seemed to be in pain.

Your eyes were still screwed shut. After a few seconds, you tried to continue our kiss. And your lips were still on mine as you slumped forward, going limp on top of me. I gasped in surprise, and we laid there for God knows how long. For a brief second, I thought I’d killed you. But you were very much alive. We laid like that until I felt your breathing become slow. I could still feel you through your breeches.

Finally, I pushed you away, quietly grunting at the exertion. I was gentle – it seemed only right – as I rolled you onto your back once more. That’s when I had a chance to admire you. Even in your stupor, you were still handsome. Laying there. Laying in _my_ bed, in nothing but your breeches.

Finally, I found my place in the bed as well. I laid beside you, staring at the ceiling. I considered going ahead without you. I could be quick, but it didn’t seem right. It just didn’t seem right. That’s when I looked at you again. You were sleeping peacefully this time.

I examined you then. Sitting up and checking your dressings. Although the exertion was enough for you to lose consciousness, the good thing was, your wound hadn’t reopened. My stitch work was still intact.

That’s when I shed the rest of my clothes; my corset, my stockings, so I was left only in my shift. Just as undressed as you were. I found my place beside you again. I don’t remember when it happened, but I finally drifted off to sleep, feeling just as lonely and dissatisfied as I did every night.

I remember being annoyed when you awoke me with a kiss the next morning. Somehow we had moved enough in our sleep so that you were holding me. Feeling your skin against me, feeling your warmth through the material of my shift. I could feel the familiar heat spreading through my body. I had been braver last night, but that morning, I didn’t have the stomach for it. I had to get away from you, so I pushed your hand away, I ignored your kisses, and I crawled out of the bed and went immediately to the hearth. I knew I was being cruel, but a part of me wanted to be cruel.

When I told you what we did was wrong, you didn’t seem as embarrassed about it as I was. I wondered how much you even remembered. Did you remember anything? Did you actually believe we had gone through with it?

Next thing I knew, I was snapping at you, and you were telling me you weren’t who you said you were. _Patriot_. _Rebel_. Whatever word you used to refer to yourself, it was obvious that we were nothing alike. I remember feeling sick, my chest feeling heavy, my stomach twisting into knots as I thought of my husband. What must he think of me?

I yelled then, and you were trying to calm me. And that’s when there was a knock at the door.

I told you to hide. I didn’t know why I did that. And then I went to the door, and the man there was saying things about rebels and escaped prisoners and danger, and I knew he was talking about you. I could’ve been done with the entire ordeal in that moment. I could’ve lied. And I did lie. But it wasn’t the lie that man wanted to hear.

Once they were gone, I told you to leave. Was I crying at that point? I couldn’t remember. And you did leave. You left within the hour. I watched you limp into the woods. Would you even survive the journey back? I had no idea. In that moment, though I was still feeling embarrassed, though I was still feeling guilty, I decided I never wanted to see you again. It would be for the best.

You lied _to_ me.

I lied _for_ you.

Where was the justice in _that_? Where was the justice for my husband? How was _this_ possible? Even though nothing had happened, you made me undone.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing second person, so feedback is greatly appreciated.


End file.
